


Blooming Affections

by amaterazu



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Ancient Egypt, Ancient Egyptian Deities, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Human/Vampire Relationship, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Language of Flowers, Reader-Insert, Shapeshifting, Slow Romance, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Visions, i want a vampire boyfriend and you do too stop lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-11-08 07:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20831333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaterazu/pseuds/amaterazu
Summary: When a mysterious stranger appears on the doorstep of your flower shop, you start questioning your ability to form coherent sentences. It will pass, though. Hopefully.Hours of thinking about Brad Pitt's soft locks in "Interview with a Vampire" and "Troy" AND looking at pictures of Trevante Rhodes birthed this. I also thank my beloved friend, who wholly supported this dumbass idea.Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/26gxX4SIkcSYDInxbIALkC?si=wvrU-Fq0TjGyTNjaY70MBQ





	1. camellia

You always thought that “hate” was a strong word, too incongruous to be used in everyday speech. You did not want to sound too harsh when asked for a personal opinion, what if you accidentally hurt someone’s feelings? Instead, you sided with a more amicable “dislike”: that way, opinions still mattered and no egos were wounded.

But you absolutely _hated_ the cold. You _hated_ the prickling feel of your sweater against your neck. You _hated_ how - no matter the number of layers - your feet were always cold. And finally, you _hated_ standing outside in the chilled morning air, waiting for your daily flower delivery to unload. Cold air effortlessly bypassed every barrier you’ve put up, turning your blood to ice.

“Chilly morning, huh?” Your delivery guy crowed, pulling out another hefty box from the boot of his truck. You nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence and held the door for him to muscle through. The man placed the box on the shop’s floor with a strangled huff. “All done here, just need you to sign,” he handed you the clipboard and watched as your numb fingers scratched an imposter of your signature.

“Thank you,” you croaked, voice rough from sleep and cold; you cleared your throat before handing back the clipboard, “have a good day.”

“You too,” he smiled and left with a small wave, “See you next week!”

You watched as his truck came to live with a dry gurgle, glossy windows casting light on the shop’s floor when he drove off with a turn. You glanced at the three wooden boxes at your feet and your face split into a childish grin.

* * *

Sometimes, all you really wanted was a mysterious vampire stranger to fall in love with you and sweep you away. But without any piggyback rides in the woods. And he didn’t need to glow, or look like Robert Pattinson at all, for that matter. Twilight’s soundtrack was good though, the visuals too. You nodded at your own thoughts, pleased to have a new fantasy in your head to explore later. The bouquet was still incomplete: several pink peonies laid on the desk in front of you, some of them still in tight buds. One of your regular clients adored the flower, always calling in a day before the delivery and ordering a generous bouquet. The pure joy on their face when they held the flowers was infectious, charging you for a week. You smiled, heart fluttering with pride and delight, careful fingers petting velvety petals. Maybe another pop of colour? Red or white?

As you moved to the fridge to pick up more peonies, you heard a distinct chime of your doorbell.

“Welcome,” you chirped behind the frosty glass, “I’ll be with you in a moment!” You glanced at the customer through the window, only able to make out a tall shadow of black as they moved around the shop.

Escaping the cold, you shivered at the change of temperature. Your eyes scanned the stranger’s broad back - they were inspecting the peonies you laid out, the shoulders of their black coat sprinkled with snow.

“Those are fresh,” you informed the customer with a smile, moving to place the chilled ones to the pile, “I have just received them this morning.” You moved your head to face the stranger and ask another question, but your words failed you.

You’ve seen your fair share of beautiful people; sometimes, it was physical features that attracted you, other times it was a twinkle in the eye as they rambled on about their favourite book. But you _knew_ what beauty looked like.

He looked… otherworldly. And it wasn’t just something physical - his presence filled the space of your shop, landing on your shoulders and fitting snug on your back like a blanket. Your skin felt feverish, almost ticklish from his overwhelming warmth. You wondered if he was just as hot to the touch.

Black suited him - it seemed to bring out his features just right, enveloping him in a cozy shadow and bringing out sharp edges of his jaw. Sunlight kissed his face, accentuating velvet smoothness of dark skin, catching on diamond hoops in his ears and finally finding home in the softness of his cupid’s bow. He seemed to glow from within; several brave snowflakes were melting on his cheeks, and brows, giving him a dewy look. His dark eyes watch you gently, _allowing_ you to stare.

“They are delightful, indeed,” he said, breaking your spell, voice low and soothing, “but you seemed to be preparing them for someone else?” The man’s brow twitched, long fingers gently petting the petals.

You watched the movement, mentally reminding yourself to compliment his rings. Or anything else, really, if that’ll keep him interested and/or compelled to stay for a little longer.

“Yes, but i have more in the fridge, if that’s what you’d like,” you jutted your thumb over your shoulder, “we can take a look together to decide on your bouquet!” _He smells like patchouli. _

He hummed, holding your gaze with a squint, as if assessing your proposal. His steady look was almost unbearable, your fingers shifting to worry loose threads on your apron almost automatically. Was there something on your face? You knew your hair was a mess, you really slept in this morning, but having a piece of food or something _worse_ stuck to your face was totally uncool.

“Maybe you can give me _your_ favourites?” He clasped his hands behind his back, full lips stretching into a languid smile that seemed to relax every muscle in your body, “I trust your taste.”

That was not new. In fact, many customers came in not knowing what they wanted. His request was not unusual, so why the hell were you so anxious?

You cleared your throat. “Sure,” you waved an open palm towards one of the armchairs next to the window, “please feel free to take a seat while you wait.” With the same smile, the man nodded at you, but made no move to sit; instead he watched you disappear behind your fridge, chuckling softly at your muted mumbling.

You wanted to lock yourself in this damn fridge. What if he did not like your favourites? He’d never come back, wouldn’t he? Or worse, what if he threw a tantrum like that customer several weeks ago and left a negative review on Google for everyone to see? “1/5. The bouquet was atrocious and the florist had a booger peeking out of her left nostril”. You gasped, chest getting stuffy with nauseous dread. Belligerent social interaction? Public shame? You didn’t think you can handle a double threat like that, so you decided to trust your inner demon/intuition on this. The flowers idly observed your self-induced panic, completely unperturbed.

Your shop looked inviting enough for Ahmad to stop by. With wide, floor to ceiling windows that welcomed sunlight and encouraged pedestrians to peek in, the space looked bigger and somehow cosier. The reason behind such pleasant atmosphere hid in plain sight: almost every corner of the single room store was branded with something personal. Ahmad was currently examining a dry flower collage - which was clearly handmade - that hung in a wooden frame on one of the walls. There was also a cardigan of a lovely shade of lavender, that laid forgotten on the back of the armchair you suggested to relax in earlier. The man also noticed an almost finished knitting (you were making a scarf) that curled up on top of a wooden box near your coffee table. The colourful ball of wool looked lonely and Ahmad briefly wondered if you liked cats. He couldn’t make out your scent. Milk oolong? Jasmine? Bird cherry? It lingered on the tip of his tongue and he could taste its sweetness as he licked his lips, but the answer evaded him. The nature of the situation did not help either - you were a florist, after all - but Ahmad was stubborn and curious. A dangerous mix for someone with too much spare time on their hands.

You emerged from the frosty prison in introspective silence. Nursing white and purple on the crook of your elbow, you swiftly cleaned lower parts with a short knife, hands precise with muscle memory. The man watched your deft fingers weave a thick thread around green stems, and then fold the flowers into simple brown paper. You sighed and nodded, seemingly happy about your work. Your eyes found his.

“Would you like a card? I still have plain ones and birthday ones, I think,” you turned to sift through the cards and envelopes on the shelf behind you.

“No, thank you,” Ahmad moved closer, hand ghosting over the bouquet, “these are for me.”

You froze. So, it was for _him_? He came in, wanting flowers for _himself_? Inwardly, you relaxed a little: you picked out the colours of the bouquet with him in mind, and you knew how delightful he’d look holding it near his face. He would attract even more attention, if that was humanly possible and socially acceptable.

“Oh!” Your smile was nervous, “How do you like them?”

He waited a little before answering, watching your heated face with a small smirk. White hyacinth and purple iris. Were they your favourites? He’d never seen the two flowers weaved together like this, but his eye liked the contrast. He _liked_ your taste.

“They are beautiful.” He purred, eyes soft and steady, “You have fine taste, flowerkeeper.” You bloomed under his pleased gaze, dazzling him with a thankful smile. He liked the gleam in your eye.

You watched as he mimicked your hold, slipping the flowers in the crook of his elbow. His eyes shone brighter next to such a bold pop of colour; white and purple definitely suited him. Like this, you realised that he definitely belonged in another time. An age of ancient kings and benevolent gods, where everyone was dressed in velvet and gold. Emeralds, rubies, pearls. Surely, he graced this era because he was a little too bored.

He watched you for a moment, eyes dark, expression unreadable. “I’m Ahmad,” you lightly shook his outstretched hand _(he was so warm)_, whispering your name in return. Your skin prickled when he repeated it with a soft rumble, lips slowly stretching into a Cheshire grin. “A pleasure to meet you, flowerkeeper.”

* * *

Sighing dreamily, you watched the street with lazy content, rubbing the hand still warm from contact. _Ahmad_. The name suited him, and you wondered if it had a meaning, like your flowers. Was he always this warm? Maybe he was one of those people who never get cold. He probably gave the best hugs too. Patchouli infused goodness.

“Ah!” A sudden thought popped in your head and you slapped your thigh in frustration, “I forgot to compliment his rings!”


	2. lemon blossom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> got you on my mind.

_Yo tengo todo lo que quiero,_   
_ Yo no puedo pedir más._   
_ Cuando te tengo a mi lado_   
_ Lo pasado se queda atrás._   
_ Si te apartan de mi vera_   
_ Y te tuviera que encontrar,_   
_ (Hasta allá te encontraría como el río va a la mar)._

On a crisp Saturday morning, your friend catches you zoning out.

“You are so rude, I can’t believe you are daydreaming in front of me like that,” you break from your spell, blinking, and she purses her lips, “The audacity.”

“I’m sorry, Sima,” you mutter, sheepishly scratching the back of your neck, “this new client just really got me thinking about stuff, I guess,” you turn to her with a deep sigh, fingers finding her wrist to squeeze gently, “I apologise.”

Sima’s dark eyes study your face for a moment before she cocks her head. “What stuff?”

Good question. Your thoughts rush to your mouth in an incessant wave, competing to be heard, to be acknowledged. Stupid stuff. Dumb and worthless stuff. Stuff you don’t bother your friends with. A pigeon lands at your feet, picking at crumbs from the cookie you two shared earlier. The bench you decided to relax on gives you a good view of the park and your ears pick up the buzz of many different voices. Is there anyone in this park that does not feel guilty after sharing their feelings? A child giggles nearby and you bite your cheek.

Sima’s rings glint under the dull sun and you trace one of them with your thumb, turning it slightly. Your eyes find hers. “Do you think one needs to be special to be loved?”

She hums, thoughtful, although her face remains impassive. “Special? Like special effects?”

“Oh my god,” you click your tongue and lower your head to suppress a graceful snort of laughter. She watches the crown of your head with a gentle smile.

“I think because we are all so different, we are special in our own way,” she muses, squeezing your fingers with her own, eyes watching the crowd idly, “Maybe someone finds another special because they lack that skill or trait the other has,” her dark eyes slide to yours, gaze steady and amiable, “After all, people come back to your shop because the way you compose a bouquet is unique.”

You huff, but your cheeks are warm. “You say that because you are my friend. You are not objective.”

“Maybe. But I also have a brain—”

“Stop.”

“—and sometimes I question whether you do too.”

Your fingers find a rib and her laughter scares off the pigeon.

* * *

The bride was a little vague with her request. “I want it to encapsulate spring!” she sighed, dreamy with her pre-wedding excitement. As always, you started with sketches at first, imagining her walking down the aisle, mindful of both the dress and the fairytale-like venue she showed you. Myrtle, Damask Rose and Bells of Ireland meant “love and good luck in your marriage”, which you felt was a wholesome, honest wish on your part. You mingled the flowers, allowing rich pink to unite with stark white as if they were getting married too. The swirl of colours looked young, fresh, but the flower choice was quite unorthodox: normally, brides leaned towards peonies or white roses, but you were given free rein and decided to think in a different direction. You really hoped it “encapsulated spring” though.

Your client did not seem to be a lot older than you. How do people find love at such a young age? More than that, how do they _decide_ it’s time to marry? You pout, failing to answer your own questions and step towards the cupboard behind your reception desk to look for a suitable ribbon. Maybe it’s just fate, you muse, turning to weave a pearly ribbon through the flower basket. Or maybe some people are luckier than others?

The shop’s doorbell startles you from your thoughts, but your greeting dies on your tongue when a familiar shadow muscles through your doorway. The space is instantly filled with his scent, warm and inviting, willing your body to relax. The hood of his parka slides off revealing the face that’s been haunting your dreams for the past month. Your eyes slide over his features, re-committing them to memory, arguably spending a little too long on his lips. You briefly wonder if they’re as soft as they look before you realise that you’re ogling him.

Ahmad catches you red-handed and smirks, corners of his eyes crinkling with teasing mirth.

“Hello to you too, flowerkeeper,” the man chuckles, voice low and warm, “is there a ghost behind me? You seem positively startled.” He glances over his shoulder to “check” and you snort at his antics. With his head turned away from you, his jaw looks especially sharp. It looks like he hasn’t shaved for a few days; your fingers itch. _Get yourself together_!

The man came by seventeen times this month - not that you counted. He usually visits just before lunch and sometimes even stays for a cup of tea (he likes his without milk). He seems to like every bouquet you assemble for him, even though he never leaves any instructions. You have memorised the sound of his footsteps now. Sometimes you wonder if he feels your melancholy, sniffs it out with some supernatural power and teleports right to your doorstep to wash it away with a brilliant smile. 

“Good morning, Ahmad”, a smile to match his own appears almost involuntary, “there is no ghost, but your shadow _is _pretty spooky”.

He clicks his tongue and nods in mock understanding. “So I was told. I was afraid you are no longer happy to see me,” he bows his head low and pouts at you, dark eyes assessing your reaction. 

“You know you are always welcomed here,” you stammer out, internally cringing. _Play it cool_, _dum-dum_. “Let me get your order!” you briskly turn to fetch his bouquet from the little fridge. Unabashed, his eyes follow your retreating form, lips twitching at the casual sway of your hips and the stray hair at your neck. 

His eye enjoys the green shade of your sweater and he suddenly realises that you look good in any colour. Over the course of a month, Ahmad unconsciously observes your love for clothing; your personal style shines through the way you fold the sleeves of your yellow shirt over your jumper and the way you fix your cardigans with belts. You paint your nails red, blue, black and green. Ahmad thinks how easily you would’ve blended in with any culture, any city - he remembers rich markets of ancient _Waset_, the abundance of colours that seduced him with silk, heavy linen and jewelled brocade.

He allows his mind to wander for a moment longer until he can almost taste the bitterness of Turkish tea on his tongue and the itchiness of carpet under his palm. You’d paint your lids black and pin the _nazar boncuğu_to your hip, you’d let your hair loose. Soaking under the lavish Mediterranean sun, you’d slink back into shadows of _Kapalıçarşı _with him when he felt the first itch - your small hand would feel divine on his heated skin. Under the myriads of pendant lights he’d kiss you; your lips would taste of _lokum_.

You’d smell of raspberries and juniper after ballet at _Mariinsky_; dazed and heady from the _medovukha_, you’d lean on his shoulder in the open carriage, all glowing eyes and warm cheeks, the snow melting on your face, sticking to your lashes. As you’d sleepily babble on about the dancers, he’d nuzzle into the intoxicating comfort of your smooth neck, inhaling as deep as he can and finally agreeing with the melancholy behind every Russian poem. _Peterburg’s_ streets would be busy and laden with song and dance; he’d kiss your smiling mouth after enthusiastic “_gor’ko_!” from street artists, _balalaika_ stretching his soul wide open.

When you return with the order, Ahmad is perusing the bridal bouquet, arms crossed behind his back. You can’t help but feel both excited and a little jittery at the way he is so curious about your work. You watch his face as you move closer, his flowers resting on the crook of your elbow.

“What do you think?” 

Ahmad shifts his gaze to you, smiles, and then looks back at the bouquet before him. He tilts his head, his golden earrings dancing with the motion. 

“I think it’s exquisite. Very fitting to the season, too.”

His praise melts you. You are vibrating. “You really think so?”

Ahmad nods, long finger pointing at one of the flowers, “If my memory serves me right, Bells of Ireland only bloom during spring, correct?”

You nod eagerly, stepping a little closer. “I wanted the bouquet to look fresh, new,” you are helping your thoughts with a free hand, eyes trained on the flowers, “a new beginning, just like spring.”

As you chatter on, Ahmad watches you with rapt attention, enjoying the honest excitement that radiates from you. You are considerate and skilled. You are passionate. His eyes watch yours as they gleam with soft joy.

“I am sure she’ll love it.”

You smile at each other, and the moment feels oddly intimate, like a shared secret. His presence feels familiar and safe, but not because of his frequent visits; you wonder if, in some other life, you’ve met and stayed together, became one. Your mind eagerly supplies you with vibrant scenarios, snapshots of shared pastimes, _memories_. You snap out of your reverie with a shake of your head, failing to note the intense gaze of the man before you.

You clear your throat. “Tea?”

* * *

Sitting across from him, your own cup forgotten, you bask in the sun, cheek resting on your fist. Ahmad watches you, instinctively mimicking your posture: he basks in your tired serenity, in the gentle tranquillity of your features that glow under soft rays. His eyes trace the arch of your eyebrow, imagining his thumb gliding over the bone; he would kiss your temple and smooth back any flyawaysthat slipped out of your tight ponytail. Outside, a car drives by and bright light briefly flickers over your slightly parted lips. You have, in fact, fallen asleep on him in the middle of your shared break. As he listens to your soft puffing, half-lidded eyes following the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders, Ahmad wonders if you’d sleep better in _his_ arms. Leaning back against his chest or face to face - he barely suppresses a shiver imagining your warm breath on his neck.

This is ridiculous. How do humans court each other in this era? The two of you have not known each other long enough for him to gift you jewellery, although why not? No one is stopping him, that’s for sure, but what if he is just reading this whole situation incorrectly? Ahmad frowns, suddenly very uncomfortable with his own train of thought. He won’t be angry or disappointed if you said no, he respects you, it’s just… Asking won’t hurt, right? Decided, he nods to himself and pats at the front of his parka before fishing out a small notebook.

He wants to spend more time with you like this - under the sun, just selfishly existing in your orbit - but the tips of his fingers already feel numb. Ahmad shifts and stands, rolling his neck with a satisfying crack. Tired eyes fall on your sleeping form; you hum quietly in your sleep and he chuckles, flowers blooming in his chest. He leans down, full lips just barely grazing your head with a delicate kiss. Your scent overwhelms him. He prays, to whoever is listening, that it will stay with him until your next meeting.

Your phone ringing startles you awake and you almost tumble down on the floor. Wiping at your cheek, you look around in an attempt to recollect your thoughts: you were drinking tea with Ahmad, chatting and laughing and the— You gasp, pure horror seizing your heart. You fell asleep. You fell asleep in front of him and you probably drooled. Groaning, you hide your face in your hands, shame setting your skin on fire. How did that even happen? Now he probably thinks you find him boring - which is actually preposterous - and he is disgusted, so he is not going to come back. Ever. 

Your phone rings again, cutting your internal TED talk off.

“_What?!_” you bark, jerking your head towards the device, almost giving yourself whiplash. A notification glows on your home screen - “DANIEL’S BIRTHDAY PARTY@7” - and you close your eyes with a deep sigh. Right, a party. Daniel is your good friend from school, so bailing on him would be plain rude. You actually have plans for once, so you need to get yourself together. 

Groggily rising to your feet, you throw a cursory glance at the coffee table before leaning to pick up dirty cups. A white piece of paper catches your attention, and you freeze. A note? You don’t remember writing anything. Maybe it slipped from one of your books? You cautiously pick the note up, examining it: the handwriting is neat and clean, but it’s not yours and you’ve never seen it before. You mouth the words as you read:

_“As always, thank you for the bouquet and the tea, it is always a pleasure to be in your company. Perhaps you would like to dine with me sometime? I recall you praising a certain seafood restaurant in the central district - we can go there if you would like._

_P.S. I didn’t want to disturb your rest. Are you getting enough sleep?_

_A.”_

There is a phone number right next to his initial. Hopefully, you’ll remember to apologise to your neighbours for the hour-long pterodactyl shrieking in broad daylight.

* * *

In the dark expanse of his library, Ahmad sits still, heavy gaze trained on the fireplace. Fire has always soothed him in the same water did, numbing and cleansing his senses. But as the murmuring flames cast placating glow on the bare skin of his broad chest, warming and relaxing his muscles, Ahmad’s mind is a cacophony of deafening thoughts. A human needs another human, but he is one no more. Is he still worthy? Is he allowed to long for mutual tenderness, to crave hushed but sure conversations about shared futures? You deserve better: a real, mortal human man, who is afraid of death and therefore lives fully. A mortal man who does not shy away from the sun, who does need human blood to satiate his hunger. A mortal man who can grow old with you.

_unworthyunworthyunworthy_

Ahmad’s face splits in a severe grimace, his head shaking in disgust. Absolutely revolting. He fleetingly wonders if _she _would consider turning him back if he asked nicely, but he knows the answer all too well. The vampire relaxes his face into an impassive mask just in time for the crimson flames to turn cerulean; in a blink of an eye, a jet black jackal appears before him, stark and sleek against the fire.

“You come uninvited, as always, _chelb_,” Ahmad sighs, sharp fangs glinting like blades,“leave me alone. Your visits have become too frequent.” The vampire rests his temple on his fist, closing his eyes. The jackal leers, milky eyes turning into dangerous slits.

“Too frequent?” the creature’s voice is hoarse gravel, its jaw clicks and grinds with every word, “Who are you to talk? You might as well move to that girl’s shop. Absolutely pathetic.”

Ahmad’s jaw shifts, but he makes no move to acknowledge the creature. Time is mocking him once again: wearing Set’s demonic scowl, it wickedly cackles at Ahmad from every corner, whispering curses and promises of infinite life. He knows the deity all too well, but childhood fairytales were a little too magnanimous; the jackal is sadistic and absolutely unscrupulous. Ahmad can’t help but wonder at the impossible truth of the creature’s blood ties to the Lord of Silence; the oldest son with jade skin like the waters of Nile, the god of rebirth with eyes shining like stars that adorn his mother's skin, and a voice gentle and warm like his father's heartbeat. _Osiris_. During _Akhet, _Ahmad’s mother would take him on long walks along the flooded fields; together, they greeted familiar faces that brought fresh food to their table. They’d soil their hands in warm, pliant earth and make mud figures that they’d give to the farmers to plant with barley. Suddenly, Ahmad feels the desperate urge to feel the warm sleekness of supple soil on his skin. _Osiris_.

An eldritch screech snaps the vampire out of his thoughts. Set tilts his sleek head, expression eerily blank even when Ahmad notices the angry marks on the wooden floor under the jackal’s paws. “Are you going to ignore me, as always?” he growls, translucent eyes piercing Ahmad’s scull with hot arrows, but he perseveres, “I do not need to remind you that I, too, happen to have all the time in the world.”

The vampire’s eyes glint the colour of plum. “Then I sincerely hope you’ll find a place to spend it elsewhere. One that would agree with your..,” _careful, Ahmad. Careful._ ”… exquisite taste.”

A sudden burst sends the flames forth and Ahmad’s fingers burn with icy frost, azure inferno scorching his cheeks right to the bone, but he makes no sound. Set’s form shivers and wobbles and he expands in a blink of an eye, sharp mandibles clicking and whirling right next to the vampire’s ear. The god leans in and a humanoid hand curls around Ahmad’s neck, sharp nails piercing taut skin, spine-chilling aura suffocating and crushing every nerve in the vampire's body.

“Foul, churlish child,” Set rasps, thousand eyes trained on the crimson defiance in the orbs of the creature before him, “I could absorb you with a flick of my wrist, snap your rotting body in half and you would still have _him_ in your thoughts. Ungrateful, selfish child!” the jackal’s mouth splits in a sadistic smile, “I wonder if your mother would’ve approved of your behaviour.”

Ahmad’s body vibrates with fury, tight muscles springing to life in an attempt to move and overpower, but his body stays still. His limbs are unresponsive, paralysed in the presence of the deity - myriads of eyes watch his invisible struggle, pinning him to the seat with acid yellow scleras. His vision begins to darken. _Odious_, _unsightly creatu_—

“Oh, my child,” Set chides, clicking his tongue with insufferable condescension, “I have been called worse, I know you can do better than that.”

—_any place is too pure for you to rot_—

Silver nails tighten on Ahmad’s throat and all thoughts cease to be. “But I’ll hear it some other time,” the jackal hums, thumb wiping foamy drool at the corner of the vampire’s mouth, “Maybe next time I shall teach you proper manners too. Your leash is a little too loose, _chelb_.”

With one last look, the deity disappears and the fire calms, returning to its natural state. Sputtering and coughing, Ahmad attempts to sit up straight, but his limbs are heavy lead. With a soft thud, he slides to the floor, bracing his weight on shaking arms as dark blood finally spills on pristine wood. He does not even attempt to stop the bleeding, merely watching as ruby flames begin to dance on the inky surface when it steadily pools all around him, staining his palms and fingers. Ahmad closes his eyes and sees your face clear as day - you are smiling, cheeks warm with soft joy. His stomach churns with anguish. Isn’t that the right way, Osiris? Am I not worthy, still?

Silence holds his hand when darkness finally overpowers his senses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk shit, get hit!!!!


End file.
